


fog in your soul

by seventhstar



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Purgatory, Spoilers for s2ep2 The Kindred, abbie/katrina friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:15:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2404826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>purgatory is inside her now. katrina crane tries to adjust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fog in your soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rangerhitomi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rangerhitomi/gifts).



> My first attempt at Sleepy Hollow fic. I love Katrina.

 

There are things in the shadows.

Monsters with claws that click, teeth that grind, saliva that drips. Voices that whisper to her, seductively and softly, promising her a slow death, a hard life, an eternal suffering. A baby’s cry. A woman’s laugh. The wind whistling through the trees and fog.

Purgatory is inside her now, and Katrina wakes every morning in Sheriff Cordin’s cabin, rolls over in a fright, catches sight of Ichabod’s face – for he takes care not to leave the bedroom until she is awake – and flinches.

“Are you real?” she asks. “Are you mine?”

He does not usually wake, and she lays a hand on him, feeling the warmth of his skin, trying to make herself believe that this is not all some extended illusion, some torment of Molloch’s. Then she rises. She dresses, in the clothes of this new time that don’t suit her. She brushes her hair, her teeth, drinks whatever tea she can find.

Then Katrina stands out on the porch, no heed of danger, and lets the sun touch her. There is no daylight in Purgatory. There was no sunlight in the Horseman’s hands (she does not let herself think of him as Abraham, not ever). She looks up at the sky and tells herself, again and again and again, _you are safe here._

She would like to believe it.

+++++

“Katrina,” Ichabod says, before he puts a hand on her shoulder. He does not startle her anymore.

She jerks away from his touch. It makes her think of things best left forgotten. His eyes widen, his face falls, and then she watches as he makes himself smile again. He wordlessly sets a tray down at the table where she is seated, surrounded by books and lined paper and pens. It is simple food, unlike the strange flavors of the modern age, and Ichabod is no chef, but he has made the effort for her.

Ah, she loves him. She nods at him, and he leaves her to her research.

It is easy to lose herself in witchcraft again. Magic is in her blood, her passion, and she reads the old texts that neither Ichabod or Lieutenant Mills ( “Call me Abbie,”) can understand. She learns about what her coven did without her. She makes herself read General Washington’s Bible, even when it pains her. There are spells somewhere here that can save them, and Katrina has no intention of sitting back while the war goes on around her. She has waited long enough.

The shadows grow long in the kitchen, until only candlelight remains. Ichabod has not returned.

She makes herself read the same passage over and over, instead of fretting. There’s nothing she can do; if she leaves she will draw the Horseman right to them. The necklace is still hanging ice cold around her neck; she sees Abraham’s face out of the corner of her eye –

But no. There is no one else here.

“I am alone,” Katrina says, and she cups a hand around the guttering candle, lights it again with a thought.

The thought is not so comforting, said out loud.

She pushes the books aside.

Katrina rises from the table, and paces up and down the main room’s length. She drinks the hot chocolate long gone cold, makes a face, spits it out. She stares at her own white face in the mirror – she looks trapped, haggard, old – and is that Molloch behind her, eyes gleaming in the reflection?

“No!” The mirror cracks into a thousand shards, and she curses. She hasn’t lost control of her gift like that since she was a girl. She takes deep breaths.

“You okay?”

She freezes. There, in the bathroom doorway, is Lieutenant Mills. She’s carrying two plastic cups filled with cold drinks, condensation beading on the sides.

“I am fine.”

Lieutenant Mills doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then she hands Katrina one of the drinks. She takes a drink of it. It’s cold and sweet and delicious, absolutely delicious. She blinks in surprise.

“Starbucks.” Lieutenant Mills winks. “Just don’t get Crane started on the prices.”

“Is Ichabod here?”

“He had to run an errand. I thought I’d drop by.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

The lieutenant nods. She leans against the sink, the lightbulbs over her head casting a sheen on the sweat on her face.

“It gets into your head, doesn’t it?” She drinks slowly. “Makes you wonder what’s real. Makes you wonder…if you’re ever gonna be safe again.”

“Lieutenant Mills –“

“Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I’m back there, in Purgatory. Waiting. Monsters closing in on me.”

Katrina says nothing. It is not sometimes for her. It is every night. But she can see for the first time the shadows under the Lietenant’s – under Abbie’s – eyes. She does not complain, of course. This is a woman who understands duty.

If Abraham had not whispered into her ear as he lay beside her, _Beloved, do you really think he is faithful_ , perhaps she would find it easier to see such things. If she were in her own time, with places to go and people to confide in, perhaps she would be less paranoid. If she were not trapped in this cabin with so little understanding of the world around her, perhaps she would not feel so helpless, so at the mercy of her own fears.

But Abbie Mills came here to bring her a drink and talk to her, just as Ichabod had done earlier, and it is not the same thing but there is a parallel in the action, a kindness she can’t ignore.

She sets her drink on the countertop and folds her hands.

“He came to me every day.”

“Molloch?”

“Ichabod.”

Abbie sucks in a breath loudly. It whistles between her teeth.

Katrina smiles. “I told myself he was an illusion. There was no other way for me to bear it. But in time…I began to wonder.” She stares off into space, left of Abbie’s head.

He promised her things. Offered her others. Held her close. Told her he loved. Meant none of it.

She was there for so long. Fog in her mind, monsters in her ears, will she ever be whole again?

“Hey.”

Abbie looks at her. Her gaze is intense, like she is holding her gun and taking aim. There’s stains on the sleeves of her jacket, the liquid scars of war. She is unlike any woman Katrina knows, but she is soldier, and Katrina understands them.

“You’re out,” she says. “You’re free. Nobody is gonna hurt you.”

Katrina wants to say, I know, but she cannot and does not.

They stand there in silence.

“…I’d better get going.” She turns to leave, and pauses. “It’s good to have you back, Katrina. Cra – Ichabod missed you.”

She walks out of the room, drink in hand, and Katrina nearly lets her go without a word.

“Lieutenant. Abbie!” Katrina calls after her. “If Purgatory troubles you – I would be glad to listen.”

Abbie smiles at her over her shoulder. “Thanks.” Then she is gone, the door clicking shut, the lock turned.

Katrina sweeps up the broken mirror. She makes herself a fresh cup of hot chocolate. Then she curls up in the biggest, softest chair with a book and lights all the candles in the room with one word. She reads.

She doesn’t look too hard into the shadows. Not tonight.


End file.
